


The Six Wives of Roose Bolton

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived. </p>
<p>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Six Wives of Roose Bolton

I. Barbrey (Divorced)

She is sharp, the Ryswell girl. The bones of her face stand out against the skin, and there is the way that she turns her head, birdlike, taut tendons in her neck straining. And there is her tongue that does not pleasure him as a mistress should, but cuts away and strips bare, much like the knives that he employs when he is at his dirty business. But Roose enjoys her, knowing full well how much in his sway old Ryswell is, placing a daughter in his bed and dangling another before him like a fruit with the promise of marriage and heirs. He savors it, knowing full well that he is a small lord among other small lords, all dwelling in the shadow of Winterfell and its portentous stone walls, and feeling, for the first time since he has come into his inheritance the weight of lordship, the breath of authority. 

So he has his way with Barbrey and he tolerates her lack of respect with amusement, silencing her tirades with cold embraces, but when the words _Brandon Stark_ tumble from her mouth one night, he casts her from his bed without a second thought. 

 

II. The Miller’s Wife (Beheaded) 

She is lucky that he does not kill her. Roose had thought of it, almost idly, when the peasant woman, far too brazen for her station, dragged her squalling brat to the gates of the Dreadfort, demanding an audience with her shouts of “His eyes! His eyes!” and since he had always valued discretion above all, he suffered her presence. She had been sent on her way, bearing a bag of silver stars, the promise of livestock and grain pressed between her lips, silencing the treacherous truth that would have undone him. He thought then, watching her depart, the babe at her hip, the money at her bosom, of how easy it would be to make an end of them both, and how clean his hands would remain. After all, water could spring from a bad source, meat could be tainted, sickness could come like a thief in the night. But it would be far better to let things take their course.

So he turns to Steelshanks, thinking on things like _bad blood_ and _proper inheritance_ , and mercifully permits her to live. The child will finish her off in his stead, if he knows his history.

 

III. Bethany (Died)

She is cold. Bethany stares blankly from her place on the block, slack body wrapped in a winding sheet, mouth curved in a slight smile. Roose does not truly mourn her; rather, he only feels a slight aggravation from the lack of her. She had born him children, most of them dead, but there had been one once who had lived. And when he too had ceased to breathe, she had grown as icy as the corpse that now lies before him, her mouth twisting in disgust when he attempted to replace their dead son, eyes as hard as his own when faced with an unbearable task. She had once found pleasure of a sort in his company, his strange Bethany, and had complimented him in a way that her sister had not. But admiration had turned to scorn, and now it seems to Roose that in death she has given him one last insult, for she looks happier now than she had these many years. 

So he leaves the bedroom, closes the door, and calls for the maester to prepare the body for interment. 

 

IV. Theon (Divorced) 

She is not as harsh as she would like him to think. The Greyjoy wench had been brought to him after her defeat at Winterfell, her failure resonant in her dead stare and spoiled finery. Men’s loyalties were so easily bought and paid for. Had not Tywin Lannister taught him that lesson well? Of course they had delivered Theon Greyjoy, disowned Princess of the Iron Islands, heir to a people who did not want her, scorning her Greenlander affectations, her soft hands, her contrived manners, all taught at the feet of her captors. She had proved a pleasant diversion for a while, until she broke, until her ladylike act had unraveled like the ruined silk of her gowns, rotting from the dampness of the nearby Wailing Water, from the fearsweat that started on her body when he bared her for his own designs. He had once thought to wed her, to bring the Ironborn under his sway, but he is far too practical to delude himself in that way. Despite his lack of soft affections and lordly conceits, Roose will never be one of them, and they will never bend the knee. Balon’s Rebellion was not that long ago, after all.

So Roose gives her to his Bastard, after she has proved her use, and shuts his eyes to what comes next.

 

V. Robb (Beheaded)

She bends beneath the weight of the ugly crown, far too quickly forged, that rests on her lovely brow. Robyn Stark, Queen in the North, worries more about lofty platitudes like _duty_ and _honor_ than about the harsh practicalities of war. Her hand hesitates when the situation calls for punishment, and her face bears sorrow for every prisoner paraded before her, her mother’s blue eyes blinking back tears of pity. The queen tries though, tries hard. She pays court to her advisors, everyone from the blustering Umbers to the stalwart Mormonts, but it is Bolton who has insinuated his way into her ear, into her bed. He advises her, cajoles her, convinces her, and when Roose thinks that he has perhaps triumphed over her dead father’s ghost, she throws it over for a jumped-up merchant boy after a careless night of pleasure. 

So he doesn’t think twice when he thrusts his blade between her ribs and puts an end to the whole mess. But he grows weary of such things. 

 

VI. Walda (Survived)

She laughs far too much, but she is a child. Walda perches on the cushioned seat of the wheelhouse, her embroidery forgotten, crumpled on the floor before her, as she beholds her new husband. She jests with him, prodding at Roose when he grows far too silent, which is most of the time, asking of her new goodson and of his bride who will join them on their journey north, babbling on about her plans for his holdfast, left far too long in disarray without a wifely hand to set things in order, bringing to light innuendo that would have made his long-dead wife blanche with violated propriety. But he tolerates it. Roose is no fool; he realizes that he is hardly this child’s adolescent fantasy of dashing cavalier or handsome prince. But she is pleased with him, she will make the best of the situation that money and family and political alliance have thrust her in. And he can appreciate that. 

So he smiles, much as he is able these days, suffers the giggles and the shrieks, knowing full well that she will be happy with whatever comes to her, and thinking on the child that already grows inside of her.


End file.
